Wheels of Fire
by thebluninja
Summary: I am Alliance M-35 Mako, serial number WEL-375. My strength is my Commander's. Her strength is the Alliance's. The Alliance's strength is that of all humanity. I suggest you start walking.


_Author's note: This was written for the March "A Day in the Life Of" contest in Aria's Afterlife. Despite the judge for the contest saying that non-sapients were not valid subjects, I had the idea of writing a BOLO-style narrative for my favorite vehicle, the Mako. Mako Hammerhead Planet Scanning. Who's with me?_

* * *

A switch closes, and electric power energizes my personality matrix. Linking with the Normandy computer synchronizes my internal clock. I have been offline for three days seventeen hours four minutes eighteen point three seconds. In that time, the armor panels damaged by corrosive thresher maw spit have been replaced, two wheels have been replaced, and my main cannon has a current theoretical accuracy of ninety-nine point nine nine repeating percent. A clear sign that the turian crewmate has had his fingers into my system.

I approve.

For this mission, however, he is not present. The Commander climbs in, and my personality matrix shifts as automated systems cede control to her. The other human marine climbs in behind her, and I lower the gunnery seat for her to access. After the turian, she is best equipped to handle the firing controls, and that give the quarian girl access to my shield controls. On more than one occasion, her frantic swapping of components has kept my shields – and myself – from failing my Commander.

"Mako, status report," she orders.

"All systems are operational. Weapon stocks are full. Shields online at one hundred twenty-five percent. Ready for orbital drop." She nods, and satisfaction flows through my circuits. The Normandy VI gives me coordinates, and the gantry moves me to the door. Moments later, I fall free, dropping towards the surface.

The asteroid is fairly large as such things go, with just enough gravity I can forgo using mass effect fields. With her hands on my controls, we race forward. Our objective is marked, a fusion torch accelerating the asteroid. Batarians have set up numerous defensive turrets in the area, protecting them with slabs of starship-grade steel.

I mark them on my HUD, and my gunner mutters a brief prayer under her breath as the turret protection slides away, allowing both of us firing access. Six rockets head towards us as the main cannon booms, rattling my passengers. The machine gun sweeps across one of the rockets, detonating it safely at a distance of one hundred five meters, and the turret that fired it explodes a moment later as the cannon blasts it again.

Five rockets incoming. The Commander is already pressing the accelerator, slewing me around towards the left as she takes out of range of four of them. The other is straight ahead of us, but she holds position long enough for the cannon to come on target. With the rocket only twenty meters away, she slams a foot down on the jump jet pedal, propelling us into the air as the rocket detonates below and just behind me.

Shield strength is reduced seventeen percent, but thanks to quarian ingenuity, my shields are still above Alliance standards. A second turret vanishes in a fireball as we race past it, machine gun chattering with the strafing. The next barrage of rockets leads to one detonation against my shields when one of my new tires catches in a dust puddle, leaving my shields at ninety-two percent. My quarian is singing to herself as she temporarily replaces one-hundred seventeen lines of my programming, and my shields begin regenerating.

Destroying the final three turrets takes another two minutes forty-three seconds, but the Commander's driving skill saves me from any more direct hits. Slowing to a stop in front of the building, she pats the dashboard. "Guardian mode," she orders me.

New programming unlocks in my personality matrix, and active sensors ping the area. At the moment, the nearest batarian threat is two kilometers distant and stationary, but the intervening rock cannot tell me if it is more turrets or a troop bunker. They disembark, entering the building. My programming allows me a limited amount of mobility and communication options, so I take it.

The end of the outcropping is four hundred meters away, just at the edge of my range. Another sensor ping gives me no more information, even without the rock blocking it. Taking a wide circle, I return to the building, and the fusion torch shuts off just before I return. The Commander emerges two minutes five seconds after the shutdown, climbing back into the driver seat. My extra programming shuts down, leaving me feeling smaller.

With everyone in place, we race towards the next fusion torch, and from five hundred seven meters away my sensors are finally able to identify the danger. "Mine field ahead," I warn them, listening to the creative curses of my gunner. She tries strafing the field with the machine gun and blasting a pair of shots, but none of them are significant enough to detonate the explosives.

My threat analysis provides a forty-two percent chance the batarians have rigged them for manual detonation. I slow down near the edge of the field as the Commander brakes, staring out my viewport at the mine field. "Everyone out. Guardian mode," she orders me. As they begin picking their way carefully through the field, my sensors are scanning the buildings and the surrounding cliffs.

When the Commander is halfway across the minefield, four batarians emerge from the building, taking aim with rocket launchers and assault rifles. My closest point of approach without entering the fields is one hundred eighty seven meters, at which distance my machine gun accuracy will be reduced to a mere seventy-one percent. Bringing my gun around, I fire the cannon.

The shot impacts the ground just in front of them, spraying the batarians with dust and rock fragments. None of them are killed; my chance of a fatal blow was only seven point seven percent. But the shot knocked them off their feet, giving the Commander and the gunner time to pull out their sniper rifles and open fire. Combined with my own machine gun fire, it keeps the batarians off-balance. One rocket is launched in my direction, but it will miss by a comfortable five point two meter margin; no evasive action needed.

Another cannon shot hits the mark, shattering one of the rocket launchers and the protective suit of the batarian holding it. Assuming the shock of losing his arm did not immediately kill him, exposure to vacuum gives him an estimated maximum life of twenty-nine seconds.

All batarian targets are eliminated. I continue to slowly circle the edge of the minefield as the Commander reaches the other side and disarms the field. Despite my programmed trust in the Commander, despite the verified logs of our previous missions together, I inch my way into the minefield until I can confirm that the explosives beneath my carriage are not going to detonate. As with most armored vehicles, my underarmor is the weakest, and a single explosion could cripple me, leaving the Commander stranded on the surface of this planetoid.

Nothing explodes, so I continue my slow roll towards the building as they vanish inside. The exterior remains clear, though several cylinders nearby are marked off by my threat assessment software. They did not activate upon our approach, but they have a ninety-eight percent match to the protective covers on the earlier set of turrets.

This building takes the Commander twenty-two minutes fifty-one seconds to clear, and as I expected, the turrets activate before they can cross the fifteen meters to my resting place. Conflicts arise immediately in my programming. I have to keep the Commander safe, and the best way to do that is allow her to embark. But doing so will mean remaining motionless for an estimated twenty-three seconds, long enough for the each turret to strike me at least once.

One point two seconds of conflict are ended with a signal from the Commander's omni-tool. Her companions duck into the collection of storage crates, using them as shelter from the rocket fire as they shoot one of the turrets, the quarian able to hack its shields even from that distance. I have a new directive – eliminate turret designation Hotel.

My wheel churn the surface layer of dust, flinging up a cloud of concealment between the Commander and turret designation Golf. I reach maximum speed of two-hundred seventeen kilometers per hour in eight seconds, easily outrunning the first two rockets aimed my direction. My cannon boomed just before I swerved, right as the next rockets fired. These ones were better aimed, the turret VI clearly attempting to calculate my location based on my speed.

Another cannon blast and a brief burst of machine gun fire left my target riddled with holes and sparking. Executing a sharp turn to dodge a rocket from turret designation India, I race back to the Commander's location, finishing off her turret with another cannon shot.

Using the building as cover from turret India, the Commander and her companions climbed inside. The quarian immediately began complaining about the minor drain on my shields from the last rocket that exploded next to me. My guardian programming relinquished control again as the Commander pulled us back around towards the last remaining turret. Jumping over another rocket made my gunner swear as her cannon shot narrowly missed, the explosive shot splashing off the back side of the metal protection.

Forty point six seconds later, turret India detonated as a machine gun round hit one of the rockets. The third fusion torch was three point one kilometers away over rough terrain and surrounded by its own collection of turrets as well. Another thirty-five minutes nineteen seconds are needed to traverse and destroy these protections, and allow the Commander to enter the building. With this being the last fusion torch, the asteroid is already slowly moving off-target. With it shut down, the Normandy can easily shove it the rest of the way and miss the planet entirely.

Four minutes thirty-nine seconds after the Commander entered the building, my sensors pick up an approaching vehicle. Energy emissions suggest a small shuttle or gunship, approaching me from the north-east. The batarians have installed good ECM on it, as my sensors are unable to pick up a definite lock. It continually jumps plus or minus forty-nine meters around a central position that may or may not be the vehicle itself.

The first sensor ghosts appear over the edge of the cliff, but visual cameras do not them pick up. Unlike my sensors, they do pick up a pair of homing missiles coming from three meters left of center distortion. I immediately go into reverse. One missile falls to my machine gun, but the other jinks and swerves. Taking inspiration from my Commander, I fire my jump jets at the last second, my momentum flinging me backwards as it explodes.

Shields drop twenty-seven percent. Without my quarian to adjust my shielding, I estimate I have two direct hits, or four indirect hits like that, until my shields are depleted. I signal the Commander's omni-tool of my situation, but receive no response. The vehicle is visible in optic sensors, but my radar and emission sensors are still unable to track it. Without a lock, I cannot risk firing the cannon and missing.

The first machine gun burst narrowly misses below it. Another pair of missiles are sent my way, forcing me to retreat further from the building. Again, I message my Commander as I attempt to evade. Whichever batarian controls their programming learns quickly, as their approach would prevent another jump jet escape. This time, my machine gun is ineffective to destroy them. At point nine seconds from impact, I fire only half my jump jets.

My shield broadcasters complain as I roll over sideways. The change in perspective is no difficulty, as both missles explode beside and behind me. Shields drop another thirty-seven percent. The enemy shuttle has paused to hover near the entrance to the building, batarian troops jumping off and running for the doors. I level the main cannon and adjust as best I can to compensate for the lack of radar lock.

The shot goes low, their shields scintillating as my shot bounces down, obliterating the first two batarians off the shuttle before cracking the outer shielding next to the building airlock. Above us, the fusion torch extinguishes as my machine gun chatters against their shields, and theirs against mine. With this rate of fire, I will lower their shields in seven point two seconds; mine will fail in five point six.

I raise the cannon two degrees and fire again. This one strikes closer to true, the round detonating as it reflects off their front dorsal shield. Revised estimates; both shields will fail in five point one seconds. The Commander responds back to me, instructing me to withdraw and preserve my integrity while she deals with the batarian soldiers.

Part of my programming objects; I am more fit to deal with a hostile shuttle than she. But her orders override my preferences. My next cannon shot misses completely, not even striking the dome, as both of our vehicles move. My only benefit is that they appear to be out of missiles now. My machine gun comes back on target before his, giving me an additional point one second lead of shields over him.

As I retreat across the rugged surface, he follows, maintaining a steady one hundred fifty meter distance, plus or minus four meters. At this range, the defects in his machine gun give me another advantage. My turian's work has made my machine gun far more accurate than his. My shields are down to thirteen percent, and his to ten, when I swerve behind a rock outcrop.

As I expect, he comes over the rock rather than around. My cannon shot impacts perfectly on the shuttle underbelly. His shields fail and armor plates buckle. One thruster fails completely, causing it to slip sideways as the pilot struggles for control, but despite the renewed radar tracking my second cannon shot misses.

Even damaged, his armor is still sufficient to shrug off most of my machine gun rounds. By the time he recovers and swings his gun back on target, my shields have regenerated up to fifteen percent. Unfortunately for him, his shuttle pauses to bring the gun online.

My main gun fires. The pilot, and likely the entire shuttle cockpit, are consumed in the explosion. Point three seconds after my shot, the Commander messages me again. _Cease Fire_, she orders. _Allow the batarians to retreat._ Point nine seconds after that, the shuttle impacts the surface, bouncing point seven eight meters back up before settling.

As ordered, I engage weapon safeties and circle the shuttle. The rear door has fallen open, bent and warped from the impact. A lone batarian in armor freezes in the door, my gun tracking him automatically despite the safety. I cannot fire. That does not mean I cannot threaten. I access batarian standard frequencies. "Start walking," I send to him. His pistol, pitifully small against my thirty-one percent and climbing shields, tumbles slowly into the dust as he starts bouncing away in the low gravity.

It is on my return to the building when another option occurs to me. Previous missions, when faced with inferior opponents on foot, the Commander has used my chassis itself to damage and destroy. My bow has been repaired seven times due to impacts with geth war machines. The nine walking batarians see me upon my approach, but only five of them react sufficiently to avoid my full speed charge towards their ranks. The other four, struck at one hundred ninety-eight kilometers per hour, go flying through the low gravity, their bodies bouncing and breaking against the gray dusty rock. I ignore the other five as they recover from their frantic leaps free.

The Commander says nothing as she climbs inside and once again takes control. My quarian cries in outrage at the state of my shields, her hands already exchanging components before she has donned her safety harness. "Hey Commander," my gunner says, "how awesome would this Mako look if we could set the wheels on fire before driving over batarians?"

My programming also processes the query, despite my not being addressed. My wheels are capable of withstanding heat up to twelve hundred degrees Celsius. Unfortunately, so are most organic armor suits. The idea still resonates with me. My optics were of insufficient resolution to capture the expressions of the batarians I dispatched, yet I long to do so.

"Ashley, it wouldn't work," the Commander says. I feel the sting of disappointment in my circuits. "But it would look really awesome." She pats my dashboard with one hand, and my programming sings in response. "Ready to go kick some more batarian ass?"

I accelerate us towards the pirate leader's base of operations in response. "Good choice, Wheely," the Commander tells me, scanning the radar and sensors as we travel.

I am Alliance M-35 Mako, serial number WEL-375. My strength is my Commander's. Her strength is the Alliance's. The Alliance's strength is that of all humanity.

I suggest you start walking.


End file.
